At Every Turn
by Blurgle
Summary: Arthur Tudor will do whatever he must to safeguard England from a most dangerous menace: his brother Henry. Inspired by a GIF set by tumblr user qweenmakers. Please note that Chapter 1 is set in the Shadow of the Tower universe, which doesn't seem to have a cat here.
1. Edward

Doña Elvira spread the valance out on the table, resolutely ignoring the sounds coming through the walls from the next room. Another three handspans should do it, she decided, and then she'd begin on the edging.

A piece of crockery suddenly smashed itself against the tiles.

They'd been at it every morning and every afternoon for the last week. Oh, they never _slept_ together, the Prince and Princess; they were segregated at night just as the English king had ordered. But he hadn't said a word about the middle of the day, had he?

Elvira had no intention of stepping in no matter what that Welshman expected. Arthur and Katherine were young, they were married in the sight of God, and they had both survived (and by the skin of their teeth!) the most virulent fever any of them had ever seen. In her opinion they had every right to live their lives as they saw fit, and what better way than in the arms of one's wedded spouse?

That said, she wasn't particularly happy at being forced to listen to them. She would have stuck wool in her ears – there was certainly enough of it in Shropshire – but she was a grandee's daughter and she had her dignity to think of.

Doña Lina stuck her head in the doorway, her voice so low it barely carried. "Are they…"

She nodded. "Shouldn't be too long…" and they both turned to stare at the bedroom door.

"I'll have the boy bring up refreshments," Lina said. " _El Rey_ won't be happy."

But she shook her head. "The moment he holds his grandson in his arms – God willing – Henry Tudor will be the happiest man on Earth."

* * *

"What _IS_ this? How…"

Queen Elizabeth looked up from her embroidery as her lord husband's voice carried through to her sitting room.

"I cannot believe these lazy, careless…you tell me what I'm supposed to do, Angharad. God forbid anyone listen to me. It's not as if I'm the King of England or anything…"

Henry suddenly burst through the door, his heavily pregnant wolfhound close at his heels and a crumpled letter clutched in one hand. "Liz, I cannot believe the effrontery of your son."

She rose to her feet and curtseyed as her ladies wisely scattered. "My son, Your Grace?"

"Yes, your son. He's gone and – well, here," he muttered, thrusting the letter at her. "Just read the mess he's got himself into!"

She took the balled-up sheets and spread them out her desk as Henry began to pace back and forth, the bitch close behind him at every step. "I told them not to do it. I told that Basque battleaxe to keep them apart at night. Now what am I supposed to do?"

"Prepare the confinement chambers, I would think," Elizabeth said, looking up with a smile.

His face was purple. "I told them not to indulge."

"Of course you did."

"They were both sick – they almost died!"

"That they were."

"But they—"

She took his arm as he passed by. "Henry, slow down; Angharad's starting to pant."

"I didn't want her to indulge either; who knows which mutt she found to…"

She laughed. "Now come on; you had her bred."

He flopped down in a chair, taking one of her hands in his and bestowing a kiss on it. "I know – and before you say a word, I'm well aware the situation at Ludlow is my own damn fault as well. I'm the one who put a handsome young man and a beautiful young woman together in a romantic faraway castle with nothing to do and expected them to amuse themselves with chess and primero. I've been old and in love for so long that I simply forgot what it was like to be young and in love."

"They still should have listened."

"Would we have listened at sixteen?" he asked. "I don't think I'd listen now, not if I was with you."

She kissed the tip of his nose. "Insufferable man."

"And yet you still suffer me."

The herald's voice suddenly rang out in the corridor. "Make way! Make way for the King's Mother's Grace!"

They broke apart with a groan of disappointment as Margaret Beaufort entered the room. "Mother, what brings you here this morning?" Henry ground out, pushing himself to his feet.

She nodded at the letter. "Is the Princess with child?"

Not for the first time Elizabeth marvelled at her mother-in-law's prescience - or perhaps her network of spies. "She is; the midwives say that with God's grace she'll deliver in April."

"Thank the Blessed Virgin," she said, crossing herself before turning a baleful eye on her son. "They were very wise to ignore you. If...yes?"

The groom at the door bowed. "Your Grace, the Spanish ambassador has arrived."

Henry didn't bother to conceal a sigh of relief. "I've been waiting for him for two weeks. If you'll excuse me, my Queen, Mother."

They watched him all but sprint out of the chamber, Angharad in trail; once he was out of sight Margaret chuckled. "Does he realize how much of a fool he was?"

"He does. Do you wish to read the letter, Madam?"

"Thank you." She picked it up and took it to her usual chair by the window, holding it close to her eyes as Elizabeth took up her work again; a few minutes later she looked up. "Has Your Grace chanced to look at the third page yet?"

She shook her head. "I didn't get that far before Henry started panicking. Why?"

"It seems your son is no longer the meek little boy," she said. "His chamberlain attempted to remonstrate with him for having disobeyed the spirit of the King's instructions – spirit, mind you – and he told him to, and I quote, 'go to the Devil'. He further told Sir Hubert that he was now a married man and would consult the laws of God and man in his dealings with his lady wife and not, and I quote again, 'meddling, officious old men'." She sent Elizabeth a sly grin. "Bit of a spark there, thank God; he'll need it. Who's going to tell Harry?"

"I suppose I'll have to, but he won't like it. He's still convinced he should be King; if it's a boy he'll be devastated. Do you think my lord husband will send him into the Church?"

"I don't know, to be honest. It might be for the best…" but she shook her head as tears sprang to her eyes. "Would Your Grace pardon me? I would pray for a while."

"Of course," she said as they both rose. "When do you leave for Collyweston?"

"Tomorrow morning," she said, pausing in the doorway. "I think I'll write Katherine a letter before I leave. I'm proud of that girl; very proud indeed."

* * *

Arthur checked the position of the afternoon sun for the tenth time in as many minutes, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo against his leg. He'd sent most of his gentlemen away for the day, his nerves far too tightly wound at the moment to tolerate their crude jokes and boastful back-slapping – but how long was this supposed to take? Months of waiting, weeks of prayers, and now—

He spun as the door opened behind him. "Any news?"

"Nothing yet, Your Grace," Gruffydd ap Rhys said. "The ladies say it's going quickly enough."

His jaw hit the floor. "Quickly? Dammit, Griff; it's been three hours!"

"And you can thank God on your knees you're still waiting; first births are safer if they're a bit slow." He nodded in the direction of the chessboard. "Listen, why don't Your Grace have a seat and we'll have us a game."

They played in silence as the sun sunk toward the horizon, neither of them bothering with more than the most basic strategy. "So have you picked a name, sir?" Gruffydd asked as he moved his remaining bishop.

"Mary if it's a girl, otherwise…" and he sighed. "We aren't naming him Henry, that's for certain; I don't want my brother to think I'm honouring him. After the tantrum he staged in January I don't want to encourage him, and even Father understood that, thank God."

He gave Arthur a searching gaze. "What's wrong with the lad anyway?"

He considered taking Griff's rook but instead settled for the king's pawn. "Conceit, mainly. He can't stand the idea of anyone outranking him except our parents. He didn't mind Margaret marrying into Scotland but when he realized that as Queen she had the right to enter the dining hall before him he went white with rage and screamed for half an hour."

Their eyes met. "You don't like him."

"I don't trust him. Kate is the one who doesn't like him; he makes her skin crawl."

"Lass has good instincts. Check."

He examined the board as the grooms arrived to light the candles. "And checkmate in three moves," he said, conceding the game. "Let's go upstairs and see if there's news."

The royal confinement chambers at Ludlow were located on the second floor, a good ten minute walk from his study; Arthur swore his knees were growing weaker with every step he took toward where Kate was bringing their child into the world. He had confidence in her, he truly did; it was himself he doubted. "If anything happens to me, Griff," he said in the stairwell, "do what you can to protect them."

He shot Arthur a look. "I give Your Grace my solemn word. Do you think he'd try something?"

"As quickly as you could say 'Richard Plantagenet'."

Five minutes later they were at the doors to the confinement chambers. "Everything's progressing just as the midwives expect," Arthur's aunt Cecily said as a scream rang out behind her. "The Princess is doing very well."

"Well?!" Arthur cried. "But—"

She took his hands in hers. "Attie, dear, please don't fret," she cooed, using his mother's pet name for him. "This is all perfectly normal. Sir Gruffydd, there's a room across the corridor that's been made ready; why don't you take the Prince there. I'll be there as soon as—" and she glanced over her shoulder as another scream rent the air, "—as soon as there's news."

He let himself be carried across to the room she'd indicated. "That was Kate," he said. "She was screaming."

"That she was, sir. Birthing's no walk in the park, is it? Here: sit and take a cup."

He gulped his wine nervously, barely bothering to taste it. "The Spartans considered childbirth as honourable as war, I once read," he said as he held out his goblet for more. "A woman who died birthing a live infant – male or female – was accorded the same respect as a man who died in victorious battle."

"That I didn't know, but it's not something you need to bother yourself about. She'll be fine; she's strong and a good age for it as well."

They retreated into an uneasy silence, Arthur picking at the ham and bread one of the grooms had brought up for them at one point, but it wasn't until the crescent moon was almost flush with the horizon that the door opened again to admit Aunt Cecily. "Yes?"

She beamed at him. "Your Grace, the Princess has given birth to a healthy baby boy. Mother and son are very well indeed."

"Mother and—" He broke down in tears, dropping to his knees as relief flooded through him. "I have a – Kate's all right? She isn't…"

"The Princess and the Prince are both as right as rain," she said, holding out her hand. "Come see."

Kate smiled shyly up at him as he entered her bedchamber, her face still flush from her exertions. "I was so worried," he said as he crouched by her bed and caressed her cheek gently. "Thank God you made it."

"Thank God for our son as well," she said, nodding to where one of the midwives was carrying in a tiny bundle.

He rose again and, taking the precious child – his child – their child – from her, brought him back to Kate, pushing aside the corner of the blanket so they could see his face.

"My boy," she all but whispered. "He's perfect, and the very picture of your grandfather the old King."

They shared a smile. "Edward, then." He bent down and kissed the downy skin, smiling against his forehead as the boy wiggled in his grasp. "Blessed Virgin, I beg you, spread your sheltering hand over mother and child."

"And father," Kate added. "May I, Arthur?"

He settled the baby into her arms, grinning as his wide, pale blue eyes searched her face. "He knows his mother."

"And father," she repeated, meeting his eyes. "Thank you."

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

He could have stayed with them to the end of time, but Kate's eyes soon started to droop and Edward – _Ted? No, Ned_ – began to cry for the wet nurse. "I have a son, Griff," he said as he emerged from the chambers. "A perfect, healthy son; we named him Edward."

"Congratulations, Your Grace. Will you need someone to take the news to the King?"

"Would you mind?"

"It would be a great honour."

He returned to his bedchamber in a daze after sending Gruffydd off with thanks. _I'm a father; I have a son…_

 _…and Henry will never be King._

 _Thank God._


	2. Mary, Part 1

I have to beg all of you to forgive me for having taken so long to finish this chapter but I do have an explanation - I was hit by a car!

Luckily I wasn't seriously injured but I did suffer a badly broken ankle and serious bruising up one side of my body, and the pain and discomfort seemed to break my brain; I couldn't sit or lie in one position long enough to actually write anything, and for the first week I was on painkillers that had me imagining Wolsey/Wulcy wearing a jetpack and/or playing catcher for the Marlins. (Why not the Cardinals I am at a loss to explain.)

I'm much better now - the cast is off and I'm about halfway through physiotherapy, and I'm not trying to make Wolsey play pro ball any longer - so I hope to get new chapters out this month on both my WIPs. Sorry again!

PS. for technical reasons this chapter has been posted in two parts.

* * *

At ten he'd thought being a man meant wielding a sword; at fourteen swiving a lass; at sixteen siring a son.

At twenty Arthur knew better.

He entered the nursery wing, the guard greeting him with the same sympathetic smile he'd already seen a hundred times that day. His wife's ladies, her midwives, even the guards were all his elders and all knew from personal experience exactly how he felt. How they could wake up every day with this pain gnawing at their hearts he didn't know; he couldn't imagine it easing, not in a hundred years.

"Papa!" Ned cried as he came into sight, running over and clutching at his legs. "Everyone's sad. Did Mama have the baby?"

He shot a look at Lady Guildford but she shook her head. "Nobody's said a word, Your Grace."

They didn't have to; despite his tender years Ned was as sharp as a tack.

He dropped down on one knee and rested a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "I need you to be brave, Neddy," he said. "I have bad news."

His face fell. "Was it a girl, sir? Uncle Harry said girls are worthless except to…" and his face flushed.

Not for the first time did he kick himself for having invited his younger brother to visit them. "Ned, I only wish you had a sister. Your mother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy—"

His little eyes lit up – and oh, how Arthur wished he didn't have to crush that innocent joy.

"—but God reached down just as he was born and carried him up to Heaven. I'm so very sorry."

"Papa, no!" Ned threw himself into his arms, sobbing over the loss of the brother he'd been anticipating for months.

 _Do you realize that your mother might have died?_ he wondered as he cradled his son. _Do you know women die birthing children every day?_

 _Keep your innocence, boy, for as long as you can._

Once Ned had calmed down Arthur pulled out his still-damp handkerchief and mopped his face. "Your mama is sad, too," he said, "so she sent me to take you to her. Can you be a big boy for me and help me console her – make her feel better?"

He lifted his chin, determination shining through the tears. "I can, sir."

"My brave boy."

He lifted Ned up and carried him out into the corridor. "And I don't want you listening to your uncle from now on," he said as the warders fell in around them. "A princess is as great a blessing as a prince and anyone who says otherwise is a fool."

His little brow knit. "Uncle Harry is a fool?"

"The biggest fool in Christendom – but don't tell Granny Queen I said that."

The sad smile over their shared secret lasted only as long as It took them to reach the confinement chambers, where his aunt Lady Howard was waiting. "How is she?"

Aunt Anne shook her head. "I fear the only remedy for her agony rests in Your Grace's arms. It wasn't her fault."

"Of course not," he said, and with all sincerity; it was nothing less than blasphemy to blame one's heartbroken wife for the manifestation of God's will. "Thank you for looking after her. Shall we, Ned?"

Kate was dozing on one side of the great state bed, her sunken, red-rimmed eyes and pallid skin the picture of exhausted, desolate grief. He crouched down beside her, shifting Ned to his knee, and placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. " _Querida_."

Her eyes fluttered open. "Turi – Edu! _Mi cielo_ …"

He gently placed Ned beside her in the bed, warning him in low tones to be gentle as a lamb with his mother as his tiny arms wrapped themselves around her neck and she drew him in. Man could span the globe in search of healing herbs, he thought, but he would never devise a more perfect balm for a mother's grieving soul than the love of her child.

His gaze strayed to the door as he brushed his fingers over Kate's tangled red hair. He should have known Harry would pour poison in Ned's ear; he should have known inviting him to Ludlow during Kate's pilgrimage to Shrewsbury would come around to bite him in the arse. Mother might think he'd changed but it was clear he'd only learned to conceal his malice under a slick veneer of charm. He still yearned for the throne, still resented anything and anyone who might get in his way – still had no respect for anyone but himself.

Someday perhaps he'd learn that the sun didn't rise solely to warm his face, but until he did Arthur would have to be on guard.

He bent down and kissed Kate again before returning to the front room. "I'll be back in a moment, Joan," he said to Lady Bergavenny. "I need to send a message down to my new almoner. Would you keep an eye on them for me?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

He stepped into the corridor but before he could order one of the guards to fetch a groom young John Arundell came skipping around the corner, a folded sheet of paper in his hand. "Is that for me, Jack?" he asked.

The boy froze, his black Cornish eyes wide with fear. "Er-yes, sir, from Lord Maltravers."

He took the note and tore it open, wondering what his chamberlain could want from him at a time like this.

 _Your Grace,_ the note read,

 _His Lordship begs to advise the Prince of Wales's Grace that His Excellency Don Fadrique, Duke of Alba, is presently in attendance and requests an audience at the Prince's Grace's earliest opportunity. His Lordship begs the Prince's Grace to advise him as to what His Excellency should be told…_

He crumpled the note in his fist, swearing under his breath; as if grace or excellency could be found at Ludlow on this God-forsaken day. "Advise His Lordship that Don Fadrique is to be shown every courtesy," he said to Jack after a moment's thought, "and – and that he is to be fully advised of today's events. What time is it?"

"Just gone Nones, sir."

"Then I'll share the evening collation with my almoner; please have him attend on me in my closet – but ask him to first find out why the Duke is here and why we had no notice of his arrival."

He waited until Arundell sped away to beckon to the closest guard. "Carry a message to Sergeant Bolton," he said in a low voice. "My son's rooms are to be guarded day and night from now on; every entry, mind you, not just the main doors. Let him know no one is to be permitted entrance except members of His Grace's household, myself, the Princess, and my sister Mary once she arrives from Eltham." He reached for the door handle, then paused. "And I am to be advised immediately if any of my brother's men attempt to make contact with the Prince by any means."

The guard dipped his head. "I'll carry the message to him now, sir."

Arthur returned to Kate and took a chair beside her bed, wishing somehow he could bear her pain. They'd lost children early – three since Ned's birth – but those losses, as painful as they had been, hadn't prepared either of them for this. Their only consolation was that the boy had lived long enough to be baptized by the midwife and that his soul had flown straight to Heaven without delay or detour.

 _Even a woman can baptize a dying newborn._

 _Even a Duke can crown himself King._

Death held no horrors for him personally, not since that awful day five years earlier when the sweat arrived at Ludlow and he'd found himself a hair's breadth away from eternity. In his fever dream he'd been surrounded by his brother Edmund, his sister Elizabeth, both his grandfathers; even his young uncles King Edward and Prince Richard had been there, as had his ancestor and namesake Arthur Pendragon. It would have been so simple, so comforting to take the great man's hand and slip beyond the pale of care, to leave behind the weak body fighting for breath after agonized breath – but then he'd thought of Kate. How could he abandon her? How could he leave her unprotected?

He knew it wasn't quite right for a prince to love his wife as deeply as he did but he'd been given no say in the matter; his heart had made that decision at their very first meeting. He hadn't been but a child that rainy night in Hampshire, not even old enough to understand how it could be between a man and a woman, but the moment she'd lifted her veil and he caught sight of that glorious red hair, those soft blue eyes, that gentle, sweet smile…

He reached out and tucked a lock of stray hair back behind Kate's ear. _We are the songs of troubadours_ , he thought, _the voices of poets, and yet it was not love but politics that first joined us: politics and the inscrutable will of God who sees and arranges all. But man has free will; aye, for good and evil._

No, he didn't fear dying; he only feared what would happen to Kate and Ned if he did.

Lady Bergavenny poked her head through the doorway. "Your Grace, the Princess's supper has arrived."

And his own collation downstairs, no doubt. "Thank you, my lady," he said, returning to his feet with a stretch. "If you'd give us a moment?"

Once they were alone again he pressed his lips gently onto her forehead, lifting their sleeping son out of her limp arms. "Don't doubt my love for you, _querida_ ," he whispered in her ear as her lashes fluttered again. "Don't ever doubt my love."

He returned Ned to his governess and headed downstairs, his heart once again leaden in his chest as he passed the chapel where his baby boy lay. _How do people live with this pain?_ he asked himself. _How do they even breathe?_ Losing a child might be the most natural thing in the world but he couldn't imagine any greater torture.

His new almoner was waiting for him at the door to his closet as requested. Tall and rotund with a calculating intelligence that shone out through pale blue eyes, Thomas Wulcy had arrived at Ludlow only five days earlier bearing a letter from his lord father the King describing him as 'ambitious, avaricious, loyal, and competent beyond measure'. Arthur had liked him from the very first, but then again he'd never had a problem with honest ambition; it was the underhanded kind that unnerved him. "Father Wulcy, good evening," he said as the priest bowed. "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

"Not at all, Your Grace. Please permit me to extend my most sincere sympathies to yourself and the Princess – and to the Prince Edward, of course – over the death of the young prince."

"Thank you. I…I can only pray he's in Heaven – well, I know he is, but…"

"Of course he is, sir; there is absolutely no doubt of that," Wulcy said, his matter-of-fact tone more comforting than any display of maudlin sentiment could have been. "Dr. Mayew and I have made the necessary arrangements; the service will be held at St. Lawrence's tomorrow morning with interment under the altar in a place of honour. If there are any special prayers you wish said…"

As if he could have planned for this. "I…please choose whatever you think is appropriate," he said, sighing in relief as their food arrived. "Shall we?"

They sat at the small corner table, Arthur's eyes running listlessly over the dishes as they were presented to him. There was salmon, whitefish, stewed cherries, salad, bread and butter… "This is far too much food for a collation," he said, glancing at Wulcy. "It is evening, isn't it?"

"Your Grace's physician felt you should be served a full meal for the sake of your health, sir, and Dr. Mayew concurred; if Your Grace would however prefer—"

"No, that's all right," he interrupted. "I'm not particularly hungry but I suppose I do need to keep my strength up, if not for myself then for Kate. If you'd pronounce the blessing?"

He lowered his head but instead of following the words of the _Ante Coenam_ he prayed instead for his wife. _Preserve her life,_ he silently begged God; _don't force me to bury her too._

They ate in silence, Arthur hardly tasting the food the servers placed before him. He only hoped Kate was eating well; despite her willingness to obey every order and do whatever was asked of her he knew she loathed the bland, nourishing foods the English physicians thought fit for confinement. Perhaps she would like some early plums…perhaps he could arrange for lamb to be brought in from the north…

He nearly dropped his knife as a discreet cough brought him out of his reverie. "I, er…what did you think of the cherries?" he asked Wulcy, who was patting his lips with a napkin.

"Delicious, sir. I must admit myself surprised to find such a fine orchard in Shropshire." And he caught Arthur's gaze, gesturing discreetly to the servers.

He dismissed them with a nod, wondering for the hundredth time why it took twelve men to provide him with even a simple Friday supper. "The current system of patronage has to change," he said once the door had closed behind them. "It's all well and good for a king to be properly served in his dining hall but I see no need for a prince to be inundated with gentlemen while supping privately."

"It's a holdover from feudal times, sir, and a common method by which the nobles—"

"I know, I know," Arthur said, waving away his words. "The lords wouldn't tolerate a system that didn't allow their sons to come to court, but that doesn't mean the boys have to hover over me while I eat. I only hope the Duke of Alba is being served half as well; if there's anyone who deserves it it's him. Did you have a chance to speak to him?"

"I did, sir. He brings news from Castile, sir; not of death, but not good news either."

He groaned; as if they didn't have enough to worry about at home. "What's happened now?"

"The grandees are again demanding Queen Juana relinquish control of the realm to her father and retire to a convent," Wulcy said. "Unfortunately she has refused, King Ferdinand has dug his heels in, and the parties are at an impasse. Don Fadrique was sent in hopes he could convince the Princess to add her voice to King Ferdinand's—"

 _Fat chance of that,_ Arthur thought.

"—but he privately believes only force of arms will convince the Queen to submit – and if that happens nothing will save her from the fury of the grandees' armies."

"So she would be better off admitting madness even if she is sane," he muttered. "O world we live in, Father, where an anointed Queen might be put to death. I'll have to speak with him, I suppose; please ask him to attend on me…God's hooks, I can't receive him tomorrow, can I?"

At least Wulcy had the manners not to smile sympathetically. "I suggest you formally receive him on Monday, sir. He may wish you to convey a message to the Princess—"

He bit out a laugh despite himself. "No, I'll just ask him to attend on Kate directly. Do you know anything about Spanish confinement practices, Father?"

"Not a thing, sir."

And that, Arthur reflected, was another reason he liked Wulcy; when he didn't know something he admitted it. "They are observed primarily in the breach. Six hours after Kate's birth her mother was back in the saddle – literally – doing battle against Muley Hacén; I've even heard it said that my lady wife spent her first full night suspended over his blood-encrusted armour. I must admit I almost envy Kate her sister. She may be a thorn in Castile's side but at least she's not one in England's."

"While the Duke of York is."

"I should have never believed Mother," he muttered. "She said he'd changed but he's only learned to hide his self-absorption better. Perhaps I'm overly suspicious but I can't help but think he's up to no good."

Wulcy's lips thinned. "For what it's worth, sir, your lord father the King agrees with you. His Grace has no illusions as to the Duke's nature; last month he sent Bishop Fisher to Rome to petition for a dispensation permitting his ordination before the usual age."

"We'd discussed it, but…" He suddenly sat up in his chair. "Father's not ill, is he?"

"He's in the very best of health, I assure you, but he is concerned by the Duke's lack of self-restraint. I assume Your Grace has heard of the Clifford girl?"

"Her father wrote me, although I don't know what he thought I could do. What does that make, three bastards now?"

"Your lord father is aware of four in total, two living," he said as he poured more wine for both of them. "All girls, oddly enough."

No wonder he'd told Ned daughters were worthless. "I'd still like to know what he's planning; Father wrote that you might be able to help. I can't have him threatening my lady wife and our children—"

 _—our children—_

"Sir?"

"I forgot – I forgot to give him a name," he babbled, hot tears suddenly streaming down his face. "I didn't…why did he have to be born so early? Why did he have to die?"

"I have no answer to that," Wulcy replied, his voice oil on the waters of Arthur's soul. "I only know that we have no choice but to endure the pain and to support those we love through the same pain."

"You mean we have to be men."

"It is our burden, sir, as pregnancy and childbirth are women's."

A blunt assessment but true nonetheless, Arthur had to admit as he took out his handkerchief yet again, this time to dry his own eyes. "I was thinking," he said as he wiped his face, "of how I used to believe that manliness involved fighting and fucking and siring sons – all the usual garbage boys tell each other. But that's not true, is it? Manliness is telling your four-year-old boy that his baby brother is dead and somehow not falling to pieces. It's holding your wife while she grieves the loss of the child she's carried inside her for almost eight months. It's…" but he shook his head. "That probably sounds facile to you."

"Not at all, sir." He gave Arthur an assessing look. "I can see why your lord father believes you'll make an excellent King."

To that he could only snort. "I'm not so sure of that myself; if I were I'd know what to do about Harry. You probably didn't expect to step into this mess when you agreed to replace Dr. Payne."

"It's my honour to assist you, sir – but if I might make a suggestion on a separate matter, it might be wise to ask Don Fadrique to serve as chief mourner at tomorrow's service. He would take it as a great honour."

Tomorrow's service.

The funeral.

 _My son is dead._

"Yes, of course he would," he said, setting his jaw; he was not going to break down again. "Would you convey my request to him tonight – and my thanks? I didn't even consider it."

He dipped his head. "Your Grace has far too much on his mind as it is."

Arthur returned upstairs alone and in silence, his household warned off as much by his glower as his guards. _What are you planning,_ he silently asked his brother, as if they shared some kind of mental connection; _mere intrigue or full-blown coup d'état? Will you break my wife's heart, our mother's, or both?_

It was ironic, he supposed, that his mother was the only one incapable of seeing Henry as anything but the scapegrace boy who'd scribbled 'Thys Boke is Myne' in enormous letters all over his primers. She should know better; she was the Usurper's niece. Why could she not see that her second son was just as devious, just as dangerous as the uncle who'd killed her brothers, bastardized her and her sisters, and set the entire realm afire with his greed?

 _He's her son,_ his inner voice reminded him. _Perhaps she sees him as clearly as you do but can't bear to face the truth; could you?_

To his shame he couldn't answer that.

He arrived to find Kate idly picking at the remnants of a roast chicken. "How are you?" he asked as he sat beside her on the bed and drew her into his arms.

"They won't let me see him."

He tilted up her face. "I know, but – but he has to be prepared."

"Prepared for—" She stiffened, but before she could dissolve into tears she took a deep breath and glanced up again, smiling bravely. "Have you chosen a name for him?"

"I thought I'd leave that to you, _querida_. If you'd like to name him after your father or St. James—"

She shook her head. "John after my brother, if you don't mind. He was a good man, Turi, and would have made a great king; I miss him so much."

As did all of Spain, he feared – but that news could wait until Monday. "I can't think of a better choice," he said aloud. "Just so you know, the service is to be at St. Lawrence's tomorrow. I'm so sorry, Kate; I wish I could fix this, but what can I do to help?"

"Pray for us," she whispered as she leaned against his chest. "Pray for all of us."

He would do that and more, he promised.

* * *

Catalina sank back into the cushions as the barge pushed off from the wharf. Three days on horseback was exhausting enough at the best of times but with the unseasonable heat and the enormous difficulty of moving an entire household and the queasiness that was just now beginning to plague her…

"Comfortable, _querida_?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she replied as Arthur leaned over and kissed her cheek. "In truth I can't think of a gentler way to travel. Did Ned and his companions finally settle down?"

"According to Sir Anthony they dropped off the moment they stepped on board." He took the seat next to her, his gentle hand resting on her belly. "Would you like a cushion for your back?"

"María's already brought me one, but thank you. Why were we delayed?"

His face grew beet red.

"What?"

"I'm not sure if I should tell you – all right, all right," he said, holding up his hands to fend off her mock glare. "Ned and George Boleyn were standing near the wharf awaiting their barge when they spotted two ladies loitering outside one of the riverside inns."

"Ladies?"

"The finest money can buy," he replied with a puckish grin. "It seems your son has been studying deportment—"

She rolled her eyes; _her_ son indeed.

"—and he and George took the opportunity to put their lessons into practice. They spent half an hour bowing and scraping and kissing the girls' hands – all very innocently, I assure you, as Tony and Griff were both in attendance at the time. I only wish Griff had driven the girls off; they had the nerve to block his path to demand he reimburse them for their 'lost wages' after Ned had wandered away."

She knew she had to tread lightly; for all his wisdom Arthur could be surprisingly sheltered. " _Tesoro_ ," she began, "a prince's courtesies won't fill a hungry girl's stomach or put a roof over her head. You wouldn't expect a stonemason or laundrymaid to work without pay, would you?"

"It's not the same thing," he muttered, his lower lip jutting out.

"It is to them, and Sir Gruffydd was right to have compensated them for their time." _And clearly he knows the going rate_ , she added to herself. "That said, I would in the future have _my_ son kept away from such females. There are lessons I would not have him learn quite yet."

"Nor I," he admitted, shooting her a sheepish grin. "I've already had a word with Tony; as his governor he should have known better."

"And Sir Gruffydd?"

He all but squirmed. "He's Welsh."

As if that made a difference.

The river east of Henley was as still as glass that day, the shadow of the willows along the bank their only respite from the hot sun; Catalina leaned back, resting her head on Arthur's broad shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever return to Ludlow?"

"I don't know, querida," he murmured into her hair, "but whatever happens part of us will always remain in the Marches."

"John."

He kissed her forehead. "I thank God every day you are my wife."

They remained nestled together as the barge made its way southeastward, Catalina too tired and queasy to do much more than watch María de Salinas embroider a shirt for her betrothed, the handsome Lord Mountjoy, whom she was to marry in November. It was an idyllic scene – or it would have been, had she been able to forget why they were travelling to Windsor in the first place.

The first hint that all was not well had come shortly after Ned's induction into the Order of the Garter that April. The Queen hadn't admitted to ill health – a lady as highborn and gracious as Elizabeth of York never would, of course – but she'd been thinner than usual and had barely been able to hold back a wince every time she moved. They'd returned to Ludlow unwillingly and in full awareness that they'd eventually be summoned back; Catalina had only hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

Arthur was once again drumming his fingers impatiently against his knee. She covered his hand with hers, silently giving him strength, knowing that nothing she could say would help. She'd cried for a week after news of her own mother's death had reached Ludlow; she already knew how hollow even the most sincere words of condolence could be at such a time.

Morning turned into afternoon, then evening; by the time they reached Windsor it was well after nightfall. "I don't like this," Arthur murmured as he peered out at the moonlit wharf. "There are no lords or bishops in attendance – in fact, the most senior official I can see is the Dean of St. George's."

She silently squeezed his hand and led him out, where they were greeted by an agitated Dean Hobbs. "Thank God Your Grace has arrived," he said to Arthur as he gestured to one of the handlers. "The King has asked that you attend on your lady mother immediately."

"Go," Catalina said before he could ask. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

Arthur embraced her wordlessly; once he'd leapt into the saddle and disappeared up the hill she turned back to the dean – but just then a boy screamed behind her and she froze in blind terror.

"What the _fuck_ did you—"

"—Your Grace!"

"—it wasn't me, I didn't—"

"—well then who did, you bloody numb-skulled—"

"MUMMY!"

Ned's cry broke the fog she was trapped in; she spun around and dropped to her knees, sweeping up her terrified son in her arms. He was alive, he was unhurt, he was—

"Your Grace…"

She glared up at Gruffydd, her blood hot with rage. _"¿Qué occurió?"_

He reared back as if she'd slapped him. "Madam, I…the Prince was halfway off the barge when it suddenly pulled away from the wharf. If St. John hadn't been on the ball and grabbed him he'd have fallen between the side of the barge and the wharf, and…"

And he might have drowned.

Catalina picked up her quivering son and returned to her feet, prayers of thanks ringing in her heart. "Forgive me, Sir Gruffydd," she said, "but in my fear I forget my English and my manners. If you would send away the horses we will proceed on foot."

It was a fairly steep climb to the castle gates but Catalina had no intention of taking any chances; she walked up the hill, Ned grasped tightly in her arms, the guards forming a phalanx of protection around them. _If you want him dead you'll have to go through me._

Fortunately the procession reached the Castle without incident; by the time they reached the doors leading to the State Apartments Ned had stopped shaking and was beginning to squirm impatiently. " _Mi cielo_ ," she said as she put him down, "I want you to go with Sir Anthony to your apartments. Don't forget to pray as hard as you can for your lady grandmother the Queen."

He nodded, his eyes still wet with unshed tears. "Yes, Mummy – but won't Johnny look after her when she gets to Heaven?"

"I…yes, of course he will," she choked out. "Will you ask him to pray for her too?"

He threw his arms around her and kissed her. "Don't worry; he already is."

Anthony Willoughby's face reddened as he led Ned away but she dismissed his unspoken apology with a brief shake of her head. It was normal for a boy of five to have an imaginary friend, and who better than a baby brother in Heaven?

She brushed the dust off her skirts before turning back to Gruffydd and a white-faced Maurice St. John. "Attend on me, please. María, if you would attend as well."

There was a private reception chamber on the ground floor; Catalina ushered them into the small room and closed the door firmly behind her before speaking. "First of all, Sir Maurice, I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my son's life. I can never hope to repay you but I give you my word that the Prince and I will show our appreciation as soon as we are able."

He dipped his head. "I only thank God the moon was full tonight, Your Grace. If it hadn't been I'd never have seen the gap open."

"Yes, we must surely thank God," she said, crossing herself. "Did it take long for the bargeman to bring the vessel by again?"

He and Gruffydd shared a look. "Not at all, madam," he said. "In fact it only moved by… I'd say three feet, then it swung back and hit the wharf – and with some force."

Behind her María gasped.

"So it may have been intentional," she said, her voice hard even in her own ears. "Very well. Sir Maurice, you will attend on the Prince in the Queen's apartments immediately. Do not inform him of this incident; tell him only that I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Very good, madam."

Once he'd left she turned back to Gruffydd. "Go to Father Wulcy immediately; work with him to find out who did this and why. I want every man and woman in attendance tonight to be interrogated closely. Even if the culprit wasn't one of our servants someone may have seen him."

"And if we do find the man?"

"Interrogate him and report your findings to the Prince when you can."

She gave Gruffydd a calm, assured smile as she left him, but by the time she'd reached the base of the great east staircase her hands were shaking so badly she had to grasp the edge of her cloak to still the tremors. Her brother-in-law was no paragon of virtue but she couldn't believe…

No, that was the problem: she could very well believe.

"Will you tell His Grace?" María asked in Spanish as they reached the landing.

"Not tonight – and please, keep everything you've heard today to yourself."

"Of course, madam; not a word."

Sir Maurice greeted them at the door to the Queen's Apartments. "The King and the Prince of Wales are with the Queen, Your Grace, and request your immediate attendance."

"Is there anything I need to know?" she asked, shifting her gaze to Lady Morley. "Alice?"

"Dr. Linacre doesn't believe she'll see tomorrow, madam," she replied. "She's been asking for her sons – for Prince Henry especially – all day."

Of course she had. "He hasn't returned from France?"

"He sent word he'd return once the tournament was over. Her Grace's confessor is also with her, as are Dr. Atwater and his priests and Archbishop Warham. She received the Viaticum earlier this evening and she's already said her farewells to the Princess Mary."

She nodded her thanks as she reflexively touched the small gold cross she wore around her neck, the one blessed by the Holy Father himself. If the Queen had already received Extreme Unction her soul was in a state of grace, and Catalina would have to take great care not to disturb her.

The room was dimly lit, odours of beeswax, incense, and putrefaction wafting through the stifling air with the prayers of a dozen priests. Catalina began a deep curtsey toward the bed but before she could reach her knees King Henry reached over and took her hand. "Come, come," he said, dragging her forward. "There's no time."

Never had truer words been said. Wizened, chap-fallen, bones and veins visible through paper-thin skin, her breath raspy and irregular, Queen Elizabeth reached out a skeletal hand that barely registered against Catalina's. "Who…Harry…"

Tears streamed down the King's face. "No, my love; it's Katherine."

"Kath…thank God. Have – have something to say."

Catalina felt Arthur's arm wrap around her waist as she gently grasped the proffered hand, bending over to better hear the weak, thready voice over the prayers of the priests. "Yes, madam?"

"Arthur says…with child. How…"

"Not quite three months, madam."

"You will soon be the…the first lady of the land. I ask for your – your promise…oath before God…"

She froze; she knew what Elizabeth was about to demand. _Please, no—_

The hand trembled as if it were about to shatter. "Don't…Harry…promise you won't do anything to harm him – swear it…"

What could she do? If she swore she might be risking her son's life and possibly her own, but if she said no she could jeopardize the Queen's chance of Heaven if the refusal caused wrath to flare in her soul at the last moment.

 _God and my family forgive me,_ she thought, _but I cannot risk sending such a good woman to Hell._ "I do so swear."

Had she ever felt so helpless in her entire life?

"Thank – God bless…"

The Queen's eyes fluttered shut and her breaths slowed; Arthur drew Catalina into the corner as the heartsick King returned to his wife's bedside. "I'm so sorry, _querida_ ," Arthur whispered. "If it matters, they ambushed me too. And Father, he…"

"It's not your fault – what?"

His eyes were black with fear. "Kate, he was coughing. I saw blood on his handkerchief. What if he – what if I—"

"Archbishop! Arthur! Quickly!"

A stunned Catalina led her husband back to his mother's bedside, guiding his hand to his mother's as Dr. Warham raised a large gold crucifix over the foot of the bed and they added their voices to those of the priests. "Kyrie, eleison; Christe, audi nos; Christe, exaudi nos…"

The Queen drew in a single crackling breath, another—

—and she was gone.

They fell to their knees, Catalina cradling Arthur as he sobbed.

Cont. in Part 2


	3. Mary, Part 2

Con't from Part 1.

* * *

Thomas Wulcy drew his cloak against the bitter wind whipping across the ice-choked Thames from the west. It was the tenth of March and well into Lent, well into dried fish and dried fruit, the Stations of the Cross and the _Stabat Mater,_ confession and charity, abstinence and asceticism. The order of the penitential season might not have changed since St. Peter walked the streets of Nero's Rome but this year the court was distracted from its usual observance – half-hearted as it tended to be – by two earthly concerns: hope for the safe delivery of the Princess of Wales, whose confinement had just entered its second week, and apprehension for the King's rapidly declining health.

The river passing by the palace made a fine metaphor for the situation within. King Henry's life was flowing toward its own inexorable end and, like the ice caught in the current, his legacy seemed to sparkle from afar. It was only upon closer examination that one could see the filth embedded within: the gravel of faction, the splintered branches of pretenders and rivals, the murky depths of questionable treason trials, and one stinking, bloated carcass of an untrustworthy, unreliable younger son.

Not that the Duke of York stunk in most people's noses. Tall and handsome with dark auburn hair and a countenance so pale it almost shone with a light of its own, Prince Henry seemed the quintessential Renaissance prince; he spoke five languages fluently, was master of both lance and lute, possessed a marked talent for the stage, and could turn a tale as skilfully as Bocaccio or Chaucer. But all those talents were more than balanced by a callous self-absorption, a towering and unpredictable temper, and the firm belief that the world and those in it existed only for and at his own pleasure. His churlish complaints over Queen Elizabeth's estate might have opened the eyes of the King's Councillors to his true nature but not even that misstep had served to dislodge the horde of greedy, stupid men who clung to him like barnacles, hoping for advantage were he to one day—

The bells of St. Mary Magdalene interrupted his train of thought; with a sigh he left the river to its own devices and clambered up the winding trail leading back to the palace. It certainly wouldn't do to miss the only meal of the day no matter how meagre, as man could not live by collation alone.

His secretary Rob Rushton was waiting for him in his sitting room. "No news from London yet, sir, " he said as he helped Wulcy out of his cloak. "The upper and lower roads washed out at midnight last night."

"Doubtless today's ice won't help matters. Has the Maidstone road reopened?"

"No, but a messenger did get through via Putney Heath."

"Courageous of him. What was he carrying, did you see?"

His eyes twinkled. "Oh, just a white leather bag – with a gold triple tiara stamped across the lacing."

From the Pope! He sent up a prayer of thanks, Rob close on his heels as he entered his study. "I take it we haven't heard from His Grace yet this morning?"

"Not yet, but…"

He turned. "But?"

"Nick and I were tidying in the bedchamber about an hour ago when we heard the King's voice coming through the wall from the Prince's study," he said, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "We couldn't hear everything he said—"

Doubtless too busy 'tidying'. Why he tolerated—

"—but we could tell he was furious. He thrice-damned someone – the Holy Father, I think – straight to Hell."

As if Julius needed the help. "Was the diplomatic pouch you saw fairly large?"

"Larger than a quarto. Did you want me to—"

A knock came at the main door just then; Rob left to answer it, leaving Wulcy to consider the possibilities as he eased himself behind his old-fashioned walnut desk. Of course the messenger could have carried any number of things – bulls appointing bishops to vacant sees, letters concerning Princess Mary's impending betrothal to King Charles of Castile, reports on the increasingly unstable situation in Italy or the unfortunate death of Charles's mother Juana la Loca – but something at the base of his spine told him there was only one matter of business worth the risk of late winter travel, even for an experienced courier: the ordination of the Duke of York.

It had been almost two years since the King had first petitioned the Pope for a dispensation allowing Prince Henry to be ordained priest before the usual minimum age of twenty-five years. The seemingly routine request had however landed on the desk of the successor of St. Peter with a resounding thud as Julius, wary of repeating the mistakes of his Borgia predecessor, quailed at the idea of chopping off one branch of the Tudor sapling merely to strengthen the other. Letters, bulls, pleadings, and a horde of envoys had got them nowhere; Wulcy only prayed the letter he'd sent last December to the Pope's nephew Cardinal della Rovere had managed to break the impasse – in more ways than one.

Rob returned to the study with a sealed note. "From the Prince of Wales, sir."

He took the paper and tore it open, grimacing at the contents; there went his dreams of dinner. "His Grace wishes to see me at noon, before he meets with the King's Council. I'll have to skip – yes?"

"I've taken the liberty of sending Nick down for a tray and I've also sent for ale. Do you wish to be served here or in the sitting room?"

And that, Wulcy reflected, was why he put up with all that 'tidying'; he'd take competence over continence any day. "Here will be fine – and bring in the account books for Limington, if you would."

Over dinner he tried to give his full attention to the accounts for the living he nominally held in Somerset but his mind kept going back to that blasted diplomatic pouch. What had the King taken such extreme exception to? Surely he hadn't learned of—

 _Stop it,_ he ordered himself, returning to the figures; whatever it was he'd find out soon enough, and fretting over the possibilities would hardly help him answer any questions Prince Arthur might have. No, for that he needed only his expertise in canon law, his intelligence, and his formidable political instincts.

He might not be as arrogant as Prince Henry – few men were – but Thomas Wulcy still knew his own worth.

All too soon the noon bell rang. "I'll likely return within the hour," he told Rob as he washed his hands in the corner basin. "If you have a free moment I'd like you to go downstairs to the Watching Chamber and see if any of the Duke of York's usual creatures are in attendance. And wish me luck; I'll certainly need it."

Rushton was having none of that. "You don't need my wishes, sir; you make your own luck."

If only that were true.

He arrived at the royal apartments to find the Prince in a fine snit. "What have you heard?" Arthur demanded as soon as Wulcy rose from his bow.

"Your Grace, I've only been advised that a diplomatic courier arrived from the Vatican this morning. May I assume the Holy Father has at last dispensed—"

"Oh, there's no need to assume," he snapped as he picked a scroll out of the heap of papers cluttering his desk and thrust it at Wulcy. "Just read it; the bastard put a load of fucking conditions on it! Do you think I need…" but his face suddenly flushed deep red. "I'm truly sorry, Father; that was completely uncalled for. If my lady mother had ever heard me berate a priest over another man's foolishness she'd have had my mouth washed out with soap."

"Your Grace does not need to apologize," he said, holding up the scroll. "Shall I…?"

"If you would."

He carried the dispensation to the window, holding the vellum up to the light as the Prince began to pace. The first two conditions were on the surface unexceptionable; the Duke had to accept ordination of his own free will – broadly defined, naturally – and had to swear an oath of celibacy prior to ordination. It must have been the last condition that had set off King Henry, and no wonder; Julius had inexplicably decreed that the Duke's ordinations as deacon and priest (and any other 'contemplated elevations', as he put it) could not take place until Arthur, Prince of Wales, was possessed of two living legitimate heirs of his body.

Only with the greatest self-control was he able to stop himself from swearing out loud.

Doubtless Julius had meant well but the combination of the King's failing health, Katherine's continuing confinement, and the intense mutual distrust between Arthur and his brother served to render the final condition one of the nastiest poison pills he'd encountered in years. If King Henry died before that second living heir made its appearance (if it even did) the Duke would never agree to be ordained unless, of course, Arthur made it worth his while – and absent an excellent preferment that was most unlikely.

"Harry will never obey me, not as things stand," the Prince said, echoing Wulcy's thoughts as he dropped back into his chair with a sigh of exasperation. "He'll listen to Father but if I ordered him tonsured I'd find the scissors buried in my back before I finished. So what can I do?"

"Continue to protect your family, sir, and pray for the life of the King."

He barked a laugh. "Warham told me the same thing. But there's another problem: nowhere in that blasted dispensation does it say anything about which diocese Julius wants Harry to have. We can't leave a prince of the blood a mere priest; it would be an insult to the dignity of my father's house and England as a whole – what?"

"Sir," he began, choosing his words carefully, "the Holy Father cannot place _ex post facto_ conditions on a dispensation. If he wishes the Duke raised to the episcopate he must do so by way of papal bull, as he would any man."

"A bull? I thought I saw one…" He began to rifle through the papers piled high on the desk, his frown deepening as he flung aside document after document. "Something for Bainbridge…a letter from Maximilian, although why he's using the Pope as an intermediary…ah, here we are," he said, breaking the seal on a tightly rolled parchment from which dangled a heavy leaden _bulla_ and unrolling it. "Father's hoping for Mann but Lord Derby has the right of that appointment and I'm not sure if we should antagonize him by interfering. I'd have no issue with Carlisle but even a southern diocese—" He suddenly froze, the blood draining from his face as he lifted his gaze to Wulcy's in speechless horror.

"Your Grace, are you well?" he asked. "Shall I call Dr. Linacre or—"

The Prince shook his head, his weak, defeated voice failing to match the fear in his eyes. "He's just…he's given…it's Durham. The bastard gave Harry the wealthiest diocese in England."

Praise God, the old man had listened!

But joy was the last thing Wulcy wanted to show at the moment; he instead assumed an air of philosophical disappointment which he hoped would serve to deceive his master. "The Holy Father has indeed made a most unexpected choice," he began, "but—"

"But nothing!" Arthur shouted. "If Father had read this he'd've collapsed on the spot! Durham is fantastically wealthy, the Prince-Bishop enjoys near-absolute rule over the county, and the diocese is a stone's throw from the Scots border. It's the perfect power base; he's given Harry the money, the manpower, and the political wherewithal to usurp the throne!"

"That would certainly be a most unwise risk, sir, if the Duke were to rule Durham as a secular prince," he allowed, "but I would ask Your Grace this: whom among the lords would risk his life and lands for the succession rights of a bishop?"

Arthur snorted a laugh. "Harry's followers certainly would."

"And who are they, sir? Nothing but a villainous pack of adventurers, masterless knights, and landless gentlemen. But the great lords, the landed gentry, the bankers, the merchants of the city: would they support him?"

He turned the matter over in his head, frowning as he met his almoner's gaze again. "They wouldn't, you're right; even if they trusted him they'd be too worried about who'd succeed to the throne after his death. As a bishop he'd never get dispensation to leave the Church and marry so it would come down to Mary or Margaret, or more likely their sons, and then…" But he stopped again, his eyes dropping back to the document in his hands. "I am a rank and utter fool."

Wulcy frowned. "Your Grace?"

"A rank and utter fool," he repeated, "and a naïve one at that. This isn't meant to vex me; it's a bribe, isn't it?"

He felt something akin to awe at the young man's brilliance; what had taken him six months to arrange had taken Arthur ten short minutes to figure out. "That may indeed be His Holiness's intention, sir," he said aloud. "The generous income attaching to the see, the customary rights of the Prince-Bishop to bear arms and hunt despite his priestly status, and the significant secular power he wields would be enough to tempt any active young prince into accepting ordination, but I remind Your Grace that Durham is also the traditional stepping stone to the archdiocese of York – and an archbishop may be made cardinal, perhaps even Holy Father in the fullness of time. Not that such a possibility could be spoken of…"

"But it would factor into Harry's thinking all the same," he replied. "The throne of St. Peter, wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, worldwide fame for all eternity, a near-certain guarantee of Heaven, all that power: he'd take the triple tiara of Rome over the crown of England any day." He met Wulcy's gaze again, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a knowing smirk. "Smart man, that Julius."

"His Holiness is a shining example of wisdom and sagacity," was all he trusted himself to say.

And that, he thought as he returned to his rooms later that afternoon, had been both the best luck and the closest call he'd had in years. He'd expected the King to choose a southern diocese for his younger son – Chichester, say, or Bath and Wells – and had suggested the vacant see of Durham to della Rovere primarily to ensure the Duke would be absent from court for most of the year (and, more importantly, out of sight of the people until such time as Prince Edward had secured a place in their hearts). But Carlisle? _Mann_? If the King had won that battle he might have set the stage for a civil war that would have destroyed his house and quite possibly the entire realm. How odd that a monarch usually so far-sighted could not see the obvious – but then again, how could even the wisest of men see clearly into the heart of a beloved son?

The next weeks went by in a blur, the tension swirling around the palace broken only by the arrival of the Duke on Lazarus Saturday. "I'm not sure if the ladies are more enthralled by Harry's prospects or his calves, to be honest," Prince Arthur said to Wulcy at the end of their regular Monday morning meeting. "I only thank God he seems reconciled to his fate. I assume the 'friend' you mentioned let him know about the papal bull?"

"Master Norreys did indeed pass on the rumour, sir. I was given to understand the Duke expressed extreme pleasure upon learning of his impending elevation to such a high and godly office."

"Oh, I'm sure its godliness counted for a lot," he snorted. "He's probably dreaming of all the mischief he can get himself into up in County Durham. I just wish…"

"Sir?"

His eyes grew wistful. "It's just that…I've never understood what happened to tear us apart. Harry and I were supposed to be not just brothers but the best of friends. I adored him when we were young, he all but worshipped me, and – and I don't know what changed that, and why he resents me so much."

The answer to that was agonizingly simple, so much so that it pained Wulcy to say the words aloud. "Sir…you didn't die."

Arthur glared at him. "I didn't – _what_?"

"Die, sir, of the sweating sickness," he said. "Your lord father the King told me himself that the Duke was never permitted to so much as imagine that he could succeed to the throne. The only future he was given the tools to envision was that of a younger son who would one day be a leading light of his brother's court. But then news arrived of your illness and vistas he'd never had the right to dream of opened up before his eyes. Since that moment he's been plagued by envy over what he believes your survival has cost him."

The Prince could only shake his head. "It sounds mad, I know, but I hope this child is a girl. Even if she's like Harry in every respect – and God forbid – she'll never pose a threat to Ned, and if worse comes to worst I can send her to some God-forsaken wasteland like Bavaria." He paused. "The dispensation is still valid if Kate delivers a girl, isn't it?"

"The Holy Father made that abundantly clear, Your Grace. There is no question—"

But before he could finish Lady Mountjoy appeared at the door. "What news, María?" Arthur asked as he leapt to his feet.

She bestowed a beatific smile on him. "Your Grace, the Princess's waters have just broken and her labours have begun."

"Thank God!" He raced past her into the sitting room, Wulcy following closely behind. "Griff! Sinj!" he shouted. "It's time!"

"Praise the saints!" Gruffydd cried as Maurice St. John pressed a brimming cup of ale into Arthur's hands. "Just sit down and relax, sir; we'll handle all the hard work."

At that Arthur laughed out loud. "Griff, Kate's the only one doing any hard work around here today – and let's not any of us forget it."

Wulcy's job that day was to wait beside the door to the confinement chambers and relay messages from the confinement chambers to the King, the Prince, and Dr. Atwater, Master of the Chapel Royal, who was to assist Bishop Foxe with the Mass of Ordination. They really needed only an hour of life from the mite, just long enough to go through the long service of ordination to deacon and priest and in all probability consecration as bishop—

—but he caught himself before he could place his soul in even greater peril. Wishing a mere hour's life on an innocent child, and a prince of the blood at that! _Give him a long life_ , he prayed, touching the cross draped over his wrist. _Give him three score and ten, a dozen healthy sons, and a kinder, more generous soul than his uncle's – or mine._

Rob and Nick greeted him at the entry to the heavily guarded second-floor gallery. "No news other than what you already know, sir," Rob said as they made their way toward the confinement chambers. "Nobody's left this morning other than my Lady Howard – oh, and my Lady Mountjoy, but you know about her."

The aforesaid baroness returned to the gallery about ten minutes later. "The King has a bit more colour today than he did yesterday at Mass," she confided to Wulcy. "He's very thin, though, and his cough…I do not know, Father; I cannot say."

"Of course not, my lady," he replied, nodding his head in full understanding as he stepped aside to let her pass by. Imagining the King's death was treason under the laws of England, and quite rightly so in Wulcy's humble opinion; a man who kept the possibility of the King's death out of his thoughts was less likely to consider regicide. But imagination was hardly necessary these days, was it? Every cough, every creaking gesture, every hoarse, sibilant word was another nail in his coffin, another candle flickering around his bier. The councillors must be afire with plans they couldn't dare enlarge upon to anyone but their own horses. How anything got done at the moment he didn't know; how could one discuss the funeral, the transition of power, even the recall of diplomats without referring to the King's death?

It suddenly occurred to him that he himself might end up a councillor before the month was up. The position of Lord Almoner – the King's fixer, in other words – had been vacant for ages, His Grace preferring to distribute alms through his confessor and engage laymen to handle those tasks requiring an unusual amount of discretion. But Arthur would soon be King and might, he mused, be induced to give Wulcy the job. The next step might be bishop, perhaps even archbishop, and then…but he stopped himself with a quiet chuckle; perhaps he'd leave wild dreams of the papacy to the Duke of York.

He was debating which regnal name Henry might choose were he to find himself Pope – Pius, Innocent, or something not actually ironic – when the faint sound of the lunch bell echoed through the hall. "Go down, if you will, and see what you can charm out of the cooks for us," he said to Nick. "We might be here all afternoon."

"Should I check on the Chapel Royal as well on my way down?"

"Please do – and look in on Bishop Foxe too."

As the boy hurried off he cast his gaze out the tall southwest windows, his eyes resting on what he could see of the manor house of Hampton through the thick latticed glass. It was a sunny day but the previous night's storms had chilled the palace to such an extent that he doubted the Princess's rooms could have been kept warm enough to fully protect mother and child. Life was both tenacious and tenuous; the tapestry of humanity might flow from God's loom until the Day of Judgment but a single child was nothing more than fine gossamer caught up in the weft.

Nick returned with a plate of dubious fish rolls just as the church bells rang one o'clock. "It was all they had left, sir," he said with an apologetic shrug. "They don't taste bad; it's just…"

He picked up one and gave it a tentative sniff; at least the whitebait smelled fresh. "I take it Dr. Foxe remains unfoxed as of yet?" he asked.

"They gave him a sip of wine this morning so he wouldn't get the shakes but he hasn't had a drop since. The choirboys are dining in the sacristy. They say old Attaboy—" and his face turned brick red as he realized what had just escaped his mouth. "Sir, I'm…"

Wulcy had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh out loud. "That's Dr. Atwater's name below stairs, is it?" he asked mildly. "Just as a point of interest, what do they call me?"

The boys shared a panicked glance before Rob, his face as red as Nick's, finally admitted the truth in a low voice. "Woolsack."

 _Woolsack?!_ "I appreciate the servants' show of confidence," he got out once he'd swallowed the mouthful of roll he'd almost choked on, "but I doubt I'll ever fly so high as to be appointed Lord Chancellor – although I do admit it's intriguing to think of the sack under one's feet, isn't it? The power, the influence…the shadow of the Tower looming over one at every turn."

Nick scoffed at that. "They'd never throw a priest into the Tower for anything short of high treason, sir; you know that."

"As things stand you're right, but there are other ways of ending a man's life than through the scaffold," he reminded them. "Kings might shrink from playing the second Henry but smart churchmen must avoid playing the turbulent priest."

He'd finished the last roll and was wiping the pasty residue off his fingers when the oak door leading to the Princess's rooms cracked open and one of Arthur's aunts peered out. "The labour's progressing normally, Father," Lady Courtenay said, raising her voice to be heard over the Princess's cries. "The midwives believe the child will be born within the half-hour."

 _Praise God!_ "I thank Your Grace most sincerely," he said, "and will advise the King and Prince of Wales immediately."

Once she'd retreated again he turned to his aides, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Nick, I'll have you inform the Prince and Dr. Atwater. Rob, you'll inform the King's Groom of the Stool, but while you're in his apartments try to find out if His Grace is still…"

"Intending to hear Mass?" the boy asked.

"I was going to say 'awake' but that's as good a euphemism as any. Once you've done that – where is the Duke dining today, do you know?"

"He was planning to spend the afternoon in the Duke of Buckingham's apartments," Nick said.

"Then speak to Buckingham's chamberlain as well – and hurry back as soon as you can, both of you."

His thoughts wandered back to his own prospects as he watched them leave, his earlier optimism fading in the light of the upcoming birth and his growing realization that he'd done very little to merit the promotion he'd all but bestowed upon himself. He'd investigated the barge incident at Windsor last autumn, to be sure, but that had proven to be the fault of a drunken dockhand; other than the letter to della Rovere – and despite the Prince's knowing smile he could never openly admit to that – he'd done little else to prove his worth.

More importantly, he hadn't lifted a finger to protect the Prince or his family, nor had he needed to. The Duke of York was arrogant and self-centred and, yes, he did resent Arthur for not having had the decency to die back in 1502, but for all those faults Wulcy had discovered him much too enamoured of his self-image as Chaucer's 'gentil parfit knight' to risk blackening his reputation with the crimes of Richard Plantagenet. Unfortunately (at least as far as his own prospects went) that left little to nothing to work with; if Prince Arthur failed to appreciate or recognize his efforts he might end his career as nothing more than yet another royal priest, one of hundreds thronging the palaces and great halls of England—

A voice cut into his reverie. "Sir! You won't believe what I just saw!"

His head snapped up; Rob was back, his eyes wild and his hat hanging off the side of his head at an impossible angle. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Did you fall, or—"

But he shook his head furiously. "No, it's the Prince of Wales! I went to tell him about Her Grace but when I got there the Duke was with him! They were pounding each other on the back and hugging each other and declaring their eternal friendship – and they said it was all due to you!"

His mouth dropped open. "Due to – due to _me_?"

He nodded. "His Grace – the Prince, I mean – said he owes you 'a debt he can never fully repay', and the Duke said he'd never forget what you did for him. You're going to be a bishop by this time next year, sir, believe you me!"

Only with the greatest difficulty was he able to prevent himself from fainting.

He'd known the risks he was taking in sending that letter, he thought as he leaned back against the wall and forced himself to breathe normally. It might be no crime to correspond with a cardinal but going behind the King's back in a matter affecting his family could have been deemed praemunire had he or the Prince objected. But his wager had paid off handsomely for all of them and for that he would always be grateful; he could almost feel the mitre settling onto his brow…

Perhaps he did make his own luck.

"I'm – I'm glad," he said at last in what was likely the greatest understatement he'd ever uttered. "I'm of course relieved Their Graces are reconciled but I'm even more pleased that the King has one less burden to bear in his final…during his continuing recovery."

If Rob had noticed his slip he didn't show it. "Shall I go to Dr. Atwater now, sir?"

"Please do," he replied, holding up a finger as a thought came to him. "Ask him to prepare the font as well; it occurs to me that the Prince may wish to have the child baptized today."

Rob sped away just as Nick returned, his brow creased in frustration. "The Duke wasn't with my lord of Buckingham, sir," he reported. "Master Russell said he'd gone up to see the Prince of Wales."

"I know; Rob found him there. How fares the King?"

"Out of bed and intending to travel down to the—" But just then he paused, his face frozen in concentration as he strained to hear something from beyond the heavy oaken door.

"What is it?" Wulcy asked. "Are the Princess's cries louder?"

But he held up a hand – and a smile slowly spread across his face. "I can hear a baby, sir – a loud one!"

As one the company dropped to its knees.

England was safe, Wulcy thought as he made the sign of the cross and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving, Nick and the guards chiming in. England was safe, the Prince and Princess of Wales were safe, they were all safe – but just then the door swung open and he found himself staring at the hem of Lady Mountjoy's kirtle. "Forgive me, my lady," he said as he clambered up with Nick's help. "I take it you bring good news?"

"The very best, Father, as I think you already know: the Princess has been delivered of a strong and healthy baby girl," she said over the cries of an infant quickly reconciling itself with the world. "And she will be a beauty, I assure you."

"Then England is doubly blessed, triply so if she possesses the Princess's mind – Your Grace!"

Everyone knelt again as Prince Arthur entered the gallery, his brother and younger sister Mary close behind him. "I understand my lady wife is about to…it hasn't happened already, has it?" he asked, gesturing for them to rise. "María?"

Her smile could have rivalled the sun. "Your Grace has just this moment become the father of a beautiful and healthy princess."

Arthur let out a whoop of joy as the Duke clapped him on the shoulder. "Praise God and St. Mary!" he cried. "But how is Kate? Is she well?"

"Very well, if tired. Would Your Grace wish to see them?"

"More than anything in the world." He turned to his brother. "Harry, would you like to join us?"

"I actually have something to discuss with the good Father here. You go meet your little girl – you too, Moll."

Once Arthur and Mary had left them the Duke turned to Wulcy and rested a collegial hand on his shoulder, unctuous charm oozing from every tiny pink pore. "Arthur tells me you were the one who suggested the diocese of Durham to the Pope, Father – Wolsey, is it?"

"Wulcy, Your Grace."

"Er, yes. I would like to thank you for your influence; I know my lord father," and with that his voice dropped to a tenor growl, "was hoping to set me adrift in the Irish Sea. I should also thank you for managing to convince Arthur I'm not the ogre he's been led to believe."

Wulcy bit his cheek and sent up a prayer thanking God for preserving the Prince's life; what kind of rule would they have had to endure, he wondered, under this man? "I thank Your Grace most sincerely," he said aloud, "but – ogre, sir?"

His tiny thin lips curled into a pout. "Our lord father decided some time ago to cast me as Mordred to Arthur's Launcelot – to make him appear a better King to the people, you understand. I may owe my lord father unquestioned allegiance and obedience but I can't deny he'll soon have a great deal to answer for." He cast a quick glance back at the oaken door, seemingly unaware of the treason he'd just uttered. "That said, I believe I'll wait here for my brother. The _infanta_ holds no particular love in her heart for me either and I'd hardly be so churlish as to intrude on her at such a delicate moment."

Recognizing the dismissal for what it was Wulcy bowed once again and retreated with Nick into the shadows as Rob returned to the gallery, his brief nod the only sign that he'd passed the message on to Dr. Atwater. Whether the Prince decided to have his daughter baptized that day he didn't know, of course, but if it wasn't done in the next two days they'd have to wait until Easter – and he wasn't sure if the King would be 'intending to hear Mass' by then, as Rob had so aptly put it.

Sir Gruffydd arrived in the gallery just as Prince Arthur emerged from his wife's rooms in the company of his sister and aunts, a tiny but very active newborn wriggling in his arms. "Come look at her, Griff," he said in a soft voice thick with awe. "You too, Harry, Wulcy."

He obediently drew near, smiling as a tiny elfin hand poked its way out of the swaddling to grasp one of Lady Howard's fingers. Pale and pink with arched red brows and Queen Elizabeth's startling blue eyes, the princess would indeed make a fine marriage prospect. Kings might wed for policy, after all, but they did still have to look at their wives; if the infant proved as lovely as her mother and aunt her future was more than assured.

The Duke was grinning from ear to ear. "She's a jewel, Arthur; a true pearl of England. Have you chosen a name?"

"Mary, but not just for our little sister," he replied, flashing an apologetic grin at her, "as Kate and I decided even before we married that our first daughter would be named for the Blessed Virgin. Griff, do you think Dr. Atwater would have any objection to receiving her into the community of Christ today?"

"That's why I'm here, sir; yon Ipswich bird," and he pointed his chin in Wulcy's direction, "thought you might wish to have the lass wet afore Mass, so Atwater's got everything ready. And as your lord father the King is presently cooling his heels downstairs…"

"We should proceed in all due haste," he finished. "Aunt Anne, Aunt Catherine, I hope you'll do us the very great honour of acting as Mary's godmothers?"

"The honour would be ours; won't it, Catherine?" Lady Howard asked, looking back at Lady Courtenay.

"It's indeed a great honour," the younger York sister agreed, "but who have you chosen as godfather?"

Arthur's eyes twinkled. "I can't think of anyone better than my lord brother. Tell me you'll do it, Harry?"

"I would be most delighted – and honoured, naturally," he said, his chest puffing out in pride. "Shall we?"

The three siblings and their aunts chatted amiably as they left the gallery for the Chapel Royal on the main floor, Wulcy following closely behind with Sir Gruffydd and a few other senior court officials who joined them on the way down. His attention wasn't drawn by their conversation, however, nor by the astonished looks on the faces of the courtiers sweeping elegant bows and curtseys on all sides; no, his eyes were trained on the back of his master's head.

 _You sly, marvellous genius._

With one carefully engineered gesture Prince Arthur had all but guaranteed the safety of his family and the continuation of his bloodline. Even if the Duke did still harbour malice toward his brother in his heart (and Wulcy was far from believing the _détente_ permanent) the sacred bond of godparent and godchild would render him helpless to act against her by word or deed. As long as she breathed he could never harm her, could never interpose himself between her and the throne, could never attempt to play the Spaniard and marry her without risking immediate and irrevocable excommunication – and if any man on Earth possessed the courage to risk the fires of Hell for temporal power, that man was not Henry Tudor the younger.

Or so he hoped.


End file.
